When Your Masks fail You.
by Lil Miss Giggles
Summary: B/S - Spike's beaten up pretty badly, it's Buffy who comes to his aid whether he likes it or not. No dialogue involved, just a Spike POV but its in the 3rd person, oh you'll understand once you've read it


When Your Masks Fail You.  
  
Author's notes:- I own none of these characters, all characters from BtVs belong to Joss Whedon so don't bother sueing 'cause you only succeed in winning the contents of my piggy bank which is about £3:23 last time I checked.  
  
  
*Shit*  
Shielding his head with his arms, Spike braced himself for the impact and screwed his eyes shut as he hurtled through the window. He lay on the ground outside, shards of glass scattered around him and embedded into his skin where he had fallen. Wincing, he opened his eyes and looked up as his attackers charged out of Willy's Place and began to approach him. He looked them up and down - something they hadn't given him a chance to do beforehand. One of them had his gun. It was aimed at his stomach. He heard the blast then automatically curled up as the pain struck home. Blood began to pool around him and the attacking demons sniggered as Spike's face contorted with the pain and he roared in agony as he was shot several times more, all aimed at his back - the resting place of most of his major organs. Attempting to block the pain out of his mind, Spike closed his eyes and let them continue with their torment till hopefully they got bored of him. Mentally he hit his head against a wall for not trying to defend himself, yet he would have only succeeding in making things worse. He would never have been able to fend them off and then they would simply release their anger at his retaliation on him. But then at least he might have died with dignity. Died fighting, the way his father had wanted him to. Oh if only Angelus could see him now, he would dismember those bastards then proceed to try and beat the chip out of his head. Who knows, maybe it would have worked.   
His nostrils flared as the smell of the blood he had stolen and was now losing filled the air until it was all he could sense. Blood. Blood and pain. A situation he would have enjoyed to the fullest if neither had been his. Blood from every corner of his body was pouring out through the bullet holes in his stomach, back and legs. Luckily enough, the target becoming his head had not crossed their minds. Opening his eyes, he noted that the entire right side of his body was bloodsoaked, his face was a mass of cuts and bruises and he was sure there was a few broken ribs in there. That was only the beginning. He still had the gunshot wounds and the glass shards to account for. Slowly looking around him, he winced as he felt and heard his neck crack - they had nearly broken it. Then he snarled as he saw the Slayer fighting what was supposed to be his fight. Stupid bleached blonde air-head. Why couldn't she find her own fights? He felt the frustration increase as he saw her finish off the demons - something he couldn't have done. Damn Initiative. Damn Slayer. Damn chip. Damn Hellmouth. Stupid Spike. Stupidstupidstupidstupid. He groaned inwardly as she approached him, her face filled with concern. He listened to her reproaches for returning to Willy's Place with a sleeping ear. He wasn't having any. Why did she always have to make things so much more difficult? If she hadn't turned up he could have picked himself up a couple of hours later and dragged himself home to lick his wounds. He could have maintained a little dignity in doing that, but no, she had to help. She helped him to his feet, and had to support him when he found he couldn't stand - could this get any worse? Oh no, wait it could. She insisted on taking him home. Not to the crypt. To her house. Her bloody house. Why was this happening? He didn't know. He doubted if he ever would. On their way to the Summers residence, Spike turned his head slightly to look at her. She was tiring under his weight and she was trying her hardest to balance them out so them didn't both fall over. She was genuinely concerned for him. Could he hate her any more than he already did? She had taken away his dignity in defending him, she must have noticed that he hadn't spoken one word to her so far. Maybe not. Maybe she had. He wanted to know what she was thinking. About him perhaps. They staggered to her doorstep where he propped himself up against the wall as she fumbled for her keys. Finding she didn't have them, she thumped on the door, calling for her mother. He watched as Joyce came out, an expression of pure shock and concern flooding her facial features when she saw the beaten vampire. Making way for the Slayer and her casualty she rushed for the first aid kit, ordering her daughter to seat him in the kitchen where she could see to his injuries.  
From his seat in the kitchen. Spike could see the Buffy standing beside the mirror, on the phone to her Watcher. Giles. He looked into the mirror. Where there should have been a reflection of an apparently young man with peroxide blonde hair, there was just the chair, and Joyce Summers, with a wet cloth cleaning out invisible wounds. As the vampire examined the mirror, he noted where there was a dent in the chair's cushion where he was sitting. Ignoring the sharp pain in his back, he allowed his gaze to fall on the Slayer. As he watched, he realised she was talking about him - to Giles. He wasn't so important that she had to tell Giles, was he? He didn't know. Maybe he was. Maybe...no. That was stupid. He shook his head - causing himself much pain - as he caught the Slayer's eye. She smiled sympathetically at him and he scowled. He didn't want her sympathy. He just wanted...no, that was stupid too. He was a vampire. No reflection, no pulse, no ability to love. Stupid. Stupid bloody prick! He blinked hard for a moment and turned his eyes to Joyce. He didn't mind her sympathy. She was sympathetic to anything that happened to be injured. She sympathised with Faith when she turned psycho and now she was sympathetic towards him. This he could cope with. She was just a mother, no high status in the demonic world. Just a human. Buffy, however, was...the Slayer. He should hate her. He should be wanting to rip her to pieces. He didn't. Infact, all he wanted right now was to...  
He heard the click as the phone was returned to its cradle. The Slayer walked into the kitchen and began to talk to her mother. About him. what to do with him? They didn't know - neither did he as a matter of fact. He knew very well that if he was caught out in the open, he was dog-meat for sure. Doggy chow. Demon fodder. He needed to get a bodyguard. You could get hellhounds for a good prices these days ... he glanced up at Buffy as she stepped infront of him and brought her face down to his. Her mother left the room. This was a serious conversation. About his safety. she was worried about him. And he wasn't listening - yes he was, just not replying. She had noticed now that he'd not said a word. A snarl when he first saw her and a few yelps of pain as Joyce cleaned him up, nothing more. Spike looked her up and down, which was hard to do since she had pulled up a chair and was now sitting down.  
Chemistry.  
Body-chemistry, as she spoke to him. He wasn't thinking straight. All his attention was on her. He didn't hate her. She had just hurt his pride. He noted the fact that all of her Slayer senses were on full alert a she spoke to him. All of his senses were too. She had stopped talking and was now staring intently at him. He stared back, fixing her with a predator's gaze. He wasn't going to back down. Then she smiled, he had won.   
He was allowed to stay at her house till he was back to full health. Again with the concerned voices and the sympathetic looks. He had gone through all this without saying a word. Maybe he should say something. Thank her for the trouble she'd gone to by saving his arse - again.   
  
He was well again. He'd mumbled a few words of thanks to the Slayer and her mother. He was leaving that night. He couldn't sleep. Was it fear of the demons outside that kept him silent? No. He knew what it was. If he said anything of significance it would all come out. Everything. He relied on his masks of vampiric instincts and his blood-lust to keep her away from him. He'd sensed the chemistry the other day when she spoke to him. He didn't want that. She didn't deserve it, he knew exactly what it meant. This wasn't going to happen. No. Never.  
Her mother was out. It was daylight. Saturday. Summer. He hated summer nights - too short. It was just Spike and the Slayer. He was shifting nervously in his chair. He could sense the tension in the air. He knew what was coming next, it had happened so many times before now. He didn't want it to happen again. No. That was a lie. He did want it to happen again, but she deserved better.  
It was her turn to fix him with a predator's gaze. He froze in the chair as she approached. No, this shouldn't be happening. As if trying to ward her off, he stood and dealt her the same gaze. She smiled and stepped closer, pulling his head down for one innocent kiss - that was all. She couldn't have anything else. He didn't want it to go any ... yes he did. he pulled her closer, his thoughts totally evolving around her, them, as the situation escalated...  
  
Spike woke. It was sunset. He looked towards the weight on his chest. Buffy. She was asleep. She shivered in her slumber and moved closer to him, he had no body heat but the vampire revelled in the fact that it was him who kept her warm. Contemplating making this a one night stand and then leaving the town altogether, Spike bit his lip. No, he couldn't. Cleansing his mind of all his worries, he focussed on Buffy, wrapped his arms around her and went back to sleep. 


End file.
